The Demise

by Diane Moody

  “No problem.” A moment later, Matt returned with the glasses and handed them to Underwood who looked over the news story.

  “Oh yeah, I remember when that happened. Really sad story. Single mom, if I’m remembering right. They kept saying it was like the kid vanished into thin air. It was all over the news.”

  “They ever find out what happened?”

  “I don’t think so, but I can’t really remember.”

  “Is it possible it was someone Mr. Lanham knew?”

  “I have no idea. What was the date again?”

  “It says Wendell’s body was found on June 8, 1969.”

  “Let’s see. Peter was just thirteen when I started driving for the elder Mr. Lanham in ‘65, so that means he would have been—what, seventeen? Eighteen? Still in high school. So I don’t know how they would have known each other, but who knows. The Wendell kid lived down in Franklin. That’s close to an hour from Braxton.”

  Matt set the letter and clipping aside. He opened the next letter dated March 3 of last year. Same thing—printed address, no return address. “The postmark on this one is 37115.”

  “I believe that’s up in the Madison area north of Nashville.”

  Matt unfolded the letter. “This one’s just one word: ‘Murderer.’ Well, he’s a man of few words, this blackmailer.”

  “Man?”

  “Or woman.”

  Underwood nodded. “What’s in the news copy?”

  Matt unfolded another headline in the Tennessean, this one dated June 13, 1969. “‘Wendell Autopsy Reveals Suspicious Death.’ It says, ‘Williamson County coroners found blunt force trauma injuries on the body of Billy Wendell, suggesting the victim could have been attacked or injured prior to his death.’ It goes on to say, ‘The victim’s pelvis and hip bones were crushed, and his skull cracked. The injuries are indicative of those found in vehicular accidents or homicides.’”

  “I don’t get it. What’s any of this got to do with Peter?”

  “Obviously, the person sending these is implicating Peter’s involvement in the kid’s disappearance, either directly or indirectly.”

  The next letter was postmarked May 1, 2013 from a 37215 zip code which Underwood said was in the Green Hills area.

  “How do you know all these zip codes off the top of your head?” Matt asked as he reached for his coffee.

  “You spend a lot of time driving around town, looking up addresses, you learn the zip codes. Long before Google Maps and GPS, we had to find things the old-fashioned way—on maps printed on folded paper.”

  “Makes sense. Okay, this one says, ‘Poor little Billy. Never knew what hit him.’”

  “Do you suppose—”

  “—Peter may have accidentally hit the kid? My thoughts exactly.”

  “Maybe a hit-and-run?” Underwood asked, scratching the bandage on the back of his head.

  “He would have been old enough to drive at seventeen,” Matt added.

  “Wait, wait, wait. I took care of all the Lanham’s cars, including Peter’s. He drove a brand new Mustang back then. His first car. He babied that car like you wouldn’t believe. A hit like that would have dented the front fender, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, there would definitely be some damage to the vehicle.”

  “He never had so much as a scratch on that Mustang.”

  “How many cars did the family have back then? Do you remember?”

  “Let me think. I’d say four, counting Peter’s Mustang.”

  “And you don’t recall any of them having front end damage around that time?”

  “No, never.” I would have—no, wait! The Mercedes . . .” Underwood sat up, grimacing but excited. “I can’t believe I forgot about this. Mr. and Mrs. Lanham were out of the country, and Peter’s Mustang was in the shop. He borrowed his mother’s Mercedes without telling me. The next morning, I opened the garage and found a note from Peter taped to the windshield. It said a deer had run out in front of him and he couldn’t stop. The dent was substantial. When I saw him later that afternoon, he was terrified of his parents finding out and begged me not to tell them when they got back. I believed him—that it was a deer he’d hit. It happens often around here, particularly in the outlying areas. So I took it to a body shop and had it fixed before they came home and never mentioned it.”

  “Meaning, Peter got away with murder,” Matt said.

  “Literally.” Underwood leaned back with a sigh.

  Matt folded his arms across his chest. “Though, technically, the charge would be involuntary manslaughter.”

  “Either way, Billy Wendell died.”

  “True.”

  They both fell silent. Matt mentally tracked the implications of that fatal accident and the cover-up which spanned decades. He thumbed through the rest of the letters. “Hopefully, the rest of these will fill in the blanks.”

  The next letter had only three words: Dead Man Talking. The copied news article, dated June 15, 1969, gave a backstory of Billy Wendell’s young life. As the only child of a single mother who worked two jobs, Billy spent most of his time on his own. He was known to hop a bus and travel all around the greater Nashville area. Sometimes he’d carry a fishing pole and spend the day roaming his favorite fishing holes. Other times, he’d hang out at the malls, ride a canoe down the Harpeth River, or stop by convenience stores to pick up beef jerky and Mountain Dews. When he went missing, many of the store owners and mall employees called authorities, filling in the gaps of Billy’s untethered life. Most assumed Billy’s was a case of being in the wrong place at the right time—a young teenager just out for a day of fishing.

  The next letter: Will you tell them or shall I?

  The news clipping, dated June 29, 1970, indicated the investigation into the death of Billy Wendell had run cold, but would remain an open case. A name and number to call was included for anyone with information, no matter how trivial.

  “So Peter kept getting letters that threatened to tie him to the death of Billy Wendell, but for what purpose?” Underwood asked. “Just to taunt him? Make him feel the heat? Don’t blackmailers usually demand a big chunk of money to keep the target from going to the police?”

  “Probably ninety percent of the time.” Matt sat back in his chair, scratching the whiskers beneath his chin. “Peter started getting these letters eighteen months ago. Did you notice Mr. Lanham acting strange over the last year or so? Preoccupied? Distant?”

  “A year ago January. Let me think.” Underwood leaned his head back on the sofa. “Peter always spent a few weeks in Vail right after the first of the year. When he came back last year, he and Patricia were extremely combative, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary.” Underwood closed his eyes. “I don’t know. Nothing I can put a finger on. But you have to remember, my relationship with Peter was strictly business. He’d tell me a few things now and then, but nothing major. And certainly nothing of a personal nature, with the exception of that last night on his yacht.”

  The number of letters increased as the months went by, though few newspaper clippings were included as the case grew colder. Matt read them all out loud. The last one was dated just two days before Peter died.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Oh my gosh.” Matt looked up at Underwood.

  “What?”

  He flipped the paper so Jim could see it. “Water tower. Sunday night. Dusk.”

  Jim sat up, wincing as he cradled his head in his hands. “He’s our guy.”

  “He’s our guy.”

  “Or girl?”

  “I don’t think so. My gut tells me it’s a guy. Which rules out Patricia or . . .”

  “Or?” Jim echoed.

  “The way I see it, no one’s name is off the list until we nail the perpetrator. Which means Donella Willet and Jenny Gresham are still—”

  “Trust me. Donella isn’t your suspect. And you can take that to the bank.”

  “I understand, but we can’t rule her out since she was directly involved wi
th buying Miss Gresham’s silence. And let’s not forget that she could be a disgruntled lover.”

  “Oh, please.” Underwood shook his head until he groaned. “I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time.”

  Matt’s cell rang. “Berkowitz. I need to take this.”

  Jim nodded as Matt answered his phone. “I was just about to call you. I think we may be on to something.”

  “Yeah? And what’s that?” his partner asked.

  “Lanham was being blackmailed. We found letters—most of them cryptic, but they included news clippings about a possible homicide years ago. My guess is, someone knows Lanham was involved.”

  “What’s the amount?”

  “That’s just it. The person who wrote these letters never asked for money. I think he was taunting Lanham into confessing.”

  “I don’t care what you think, Bryson. I want evidence. Hard evidence. Did you get your hands on that new will yet?”

  “Yes, but it’s sealed. Lanham gave Underwood strict instructions to take it to his attorney.”

  “So? Unseal it.”

  “No way. I’ll take it to the attorney—”

  “Oh, I forgot. Always the Boy Scout. Look, Bryson, get on the phone. Call the attorney. Tell him you’re bringing it over. Now.”

  “I’m not going to call him now! It’s the middle of the night!”

  “Just do it.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “See that you do. I’ll be there in the morning. I want this case wrapped up. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  As usual, Berkowitz hung up without another word. Matt stretched the muscles in his neck as he checked his watch. It was just after four in the morning. Obviously Berkowitz had no qualms about calling in the middle of the night, but he wasn’t about to wake up Lanham’s attorney at this hour.

  Jim had dozed off, so Matt quietly gathered the notes and news clippings then jotted a quick note telling Underwood he’d call him as soon as he talked to Lanham’s attorney. With the duffel bag over his shoulder, he yawned as he slipped out the door. With any luck, he’d be able to grab a couple of hours of sleep before making that call.

  Chapter 28

  Julie peeked at her alarm clock, then pulled her pillow over her head. She’d been in bed for less than four hours, but never really slept. The events of the past few days kept swirling through her mind as if tossed in a high-speed blender. She felt frustrated, exhausted, and still extremely sore. She tried to convince herself to make a valiant effort to go to work, but after a painfully slow trip to the bathroom, she gave up. She needed to eat something then take another pain pill and sleep it off.

  She found Gevin sitting at the kitchen counter eating a bowl of cereal.

  “Wow, Jules. You look like death warmed over.”

  “I feel like death warmed over.” She shuffled toward the cabinet and grabbed a coffee mug.

  “You’re not going to work, are you? Because, no offense, but that bruise on your forehead is kind of creepy.”

  “Gev, enough with the commentary, okay? No, I’m not going to work.” She poured herself some coffee and added a splash of cream.

  “Matt called earlier. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  “What is he, my keeper? Why can’t you all just leave me alone?”

  “He’s concerned. So am I. Someone tried to kill you, sis. Don’t you get that?”

  “I get it. I get it! I’m just tired of everyone hovering over me. Especially Matt. Honestly, is he not the most stubborn person you’ve ever met?”

  “Uh, no. I’m pretty sure you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “No one else even comes close. Look, he told me what happened last night at the marina. There’s some serious stuff going on, Jules, and he’s trying to protect you. If anything, I would think you might cut the guy some slack. It’s obvious he cares for you, even when you frustrate him. Which is something you do easily where he’s concerned.”

  Julie rolled her eyes as she sipped her coffee. “Whatever. To be honest, I’m too tired to think about it.”

  “He said Underwood refused to stay overnight at the hospital. Was he okay?”

  “I think so. At least, he was last night when they dropped me off. He’s lucky he didn’t get his brains knocked out all over that marina.”

  “Matt says his attacker ran off when you honked the horn and flipped on the car lights.”

  “It was all I could think to do. I’m just sorry I didn’t get a better look at him.”

  “Did Underwood?”

  “No. It all happened so fast. I’m just thankful Jim tossed the duffel in the water.”

  “Did you find out what was in it?”

  “No. Matt wouldn’t let Jim talk about it in front of me. See what I mean? He treats me like—”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Gevin tilted his bowl to drink the rest of the milk. “Matt said he was waiting on a call from the attorney’s office. He’s planning to pick up Underwood and head to town as soon as he gets the call. He said he’d call you first chance he gets.”

  “Gee. I can hardly wait.” Julie let her arm slide across the counter, then planted her head on her hand and yawned.

  Gevin took his dishes to the sink and rinsed them. “I think it’s time you took those pain meds and go back to bed.” He filled a small glass with water. “Down the hatch.”

  “You sound just like Mom.”

  He pushed the pill bottle and glass toward her. “Just do it.”

  She sat up, took the pills, and drained the glass. “There. Satisfied?”

  “Totally.” He pinched her shoulder then headed toward the door. “Now get back in bed, okay? I’ll be in the studio if you need anything.” He opened the door then stopped. “And listen to me, Julie. Do not leave. Under any circumstance, okay? I promised Matt I’d make sure you didn’t—”

  “Blah blah blah,” she mimicked, making chatting gestures with her hand.

  “Julie?”

  “All right, all right. I’m going to bed.”

  Back in her room, Julie called Georgia at the office, and for the second day in a row, told her she wasn’t coming in for work.

  “Oh sweetie, you take as long as you need to recover. We’re all still a bit nervous anyway, what with Mr. Lanham dead, and Donella gone, and you recovering from a near-death accident in the river. What a week it’s been.” Georgia’s voice trailed off before a loud honk came through the line as she blew her nose.

  “It’s no big deal, Georgia. Since it’s Friday, I’ll just get an early start on the weekend so I can knock back all this soreness.”

  “Oh, you poor dear. How about I bring over some soup for you on my lunch break? Today’s chicken noodle soup day at Denton’s. I can just pop in and get us both some, then we can have lunch together.”

  “That’s so sweet of you to offer. But I just took some pain meds, and I can already feel the drowsiness setting in. So if it’s okay, I’ll take a rain check. Maybe another time.”

  “Yes, of course. Silly me. You need your rest. Well, don’t you worry about a thing. You just get some sleep, and I’ll pray you feel all better by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Georgia. You’re the best.”

  “You too, sweetie. Sweet dreams.”

  Julie took a quick shower, welcoming the hot water that seemed to douse yesterday’s troubles down the drain. Then again, it could be the drugs in her system.

  She tried to remember what it was like to lead a normal, uncluttered life. Before Peter’s death. Before Matt Bryson walked into her life. Before all the mystery and intrigue that had rocked Braxton. And before her world got so complicated.

  Before all the drama.

  Ten minutes later, she put her cell on mute and crawled back in bed.

  Hank Ormsby, Peter Lanham’s attorney, had been in Knoxville all week participating in a trial there. When his secretary called to tell him Agent Matt Bryson and Jim Underwood needed to see h
im right away, he agreed to meet them as soon as he got back to his office near downtown Nashville. He estimated he could be there by five-thirty that afternoon.

  Underwood was grateful for the chance to get more rest, but Matt was about to climb the wall. Berkowitz kept calling, berating him for not breaking the seal and reading the will, but Matt held his ground. By mid-afternoon, he quit taking his partner’s calls.

  Around two o’clock, he finally heard back from an agent with the California Bureau of Investigation. Matt knew there had to be some reason Peter had remained in contact with Su-Jin, his childhood nanny. The linguistics department had translated all of the emails for him, which raised even more questions in Matt’s mind. The correspondence was vague for the most part, but revealed a deep bond between the two. Not a great surprise, considering the indifference Peter’s mother had shown him and his sister as they grew up. Perhaps Su-Jin had been the mother figure in Peter’s life, which would explain why he stayed in contact with her.

  But Matt couldn’t shake the feeling that the casual tone of the emails between them covered something deeper. If Su-Jin was Peter’s confidant, the person he could share anything and everything with, then Matt needed to talk with her. He’d used the FBI’s database to locate the eighty-year-old nanny and found out she lived in an area just outside of San Francisco.

  Once the agent gave him the number, he called immediately. She answered on the third ring. Matt identified himself and explained the reason for his call.

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she said. Matt was surprised to hear only a trace of accent in her voice. “I wanted to come for the funeral, but my health is not good.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Matt said. “His death has devastated the folks of Braxton.”

  “I’m sure it has. Peter was beloved by most everyone who knew him.”

  “Mrs. Kym—”

  “Please, call me Su-Jin.”

  “Oh, all right. Su-Jin, I’m curious that Peter wrote to you in Korean. Did you teach him the language when you were his nanny?”

  A quiet laugh spilled through the line. “Oh yes. Peter was fascinated with the way I spoke, and insisted at a very young age that I teach him my language. Even as a child, he was so bright and inquisitive, so he quickly learned how to converse in Korean. It was our secret language, and he loved being able to speak with me knowing his mother and Shannon couldn’t understand what we were saying. He was such a joy . . .”